


Awake

by feverishsea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Lots of wings, Magical Realism, Winglock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-29
Updated: 2012-02-29
Packaged: 2017-10-31 21:43:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feverishsea/pseuds/feverishsea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson has always had a few extra tricks up his sleeve. The problem is, he can't use them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Awake

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Пробуждение (Awake)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1622636) by [lyapsik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyapsik/pseuds/lyapsik)



John Watson spends quite a bit of his time asleep. He has also always been a little bit psychic.

 

Not in a useful way; not in a way where he knows things other people don't, or can change the inevitable. His dubious gift is that in the few half-breaths before something really bad happens, John knows with absolute certainty both what is about to happen and that he can't do anything about it. Although it bothers him, he never feels guilty about it. It's something he can't help, the same way he can't help being allergic to catfish, and just as useless.

 

He knows when he is about to be kidnapped by Moriarty. He knows when that one experiment on the kitchen counter is about to explode. He knows when Sherlock is about to fall.

 

The shift between when John knows and when everyone else knows is so subtle that he might think it was a figment of his imagination; an invention of his mind to cope with his struggles with mortality.

 

Might think that, if it wasn't for the dreams.

 

Once a year on his birthday, John sleeps for the entire day and nobody can wake him up. It's been that way since he was a child. As a baby it wasn't too noticeable, but for the first few years after that his parents panicked and took him to the hospital. Since there was nothing actually wrong with John and he woke up a minute after midnight, the doctors were baffled. His parents were frightened. It gradually became one of those secrets hidden in plain sight, and John knew better than to talk about it. The night before his birthday he went into his room and didn't come out until it was not his birthday anymore.

 

He also never talks about the dreams.

 

Every year on his birthday, he has the same dream. He wakes up - well, no, he's dreaming, but he opens his eyes - to darkness that looks like the black velvet of space. It is around him, but doesn't surround him, an important distinction. A woman in a white dress - not gleaming, virginal white; just ordinary, colorless cloth - walks toward him.

 

She is beautiful, with strong, confident features and dark hair, but that's not important. What is important is the power that rolls off her; so thick that John can almost taste it. It is confidence, not arrogance, because it is merited. John sees it in way she holds herself, the way she speaks, the way she folds her large white wings.

 

The woman doesn't smile at him, exactly, but there is a certain fondness in her eyes as she greets him and asks him questions. When John is a child, she asks him about his parents; if he is safe. As he grows older, she asks him about friends; if he is content. On his 34th birthday, when he is tossing feverishly in a hospital bed and about to be invalided home to London, she asks if he is fulfilled.

 

That's the first time John tells her no.

 

His day with her - he knows it's a day afterward, when he wakes up and gazes blearily at the 12:01 AM blinking on his clock, but during the dream there is no concrete passage of time - always ends the same way. She stretches her wings out to their full length as John watches in awe. This is his favorite part of the dream. Her wings are beautiful; both ephemeral and vivid. The feathers are a downy white and drip softness.

 

"Would you like yours?" she always asks.

 

"No," John always says.

 

She has never told him what it would mean to have them, and he has never asked. The wings are just another version of the useless power he already possesses; two data points on the same graph. That is not the point. One he had no choice in. The other is an offering. It isn't so much fear as pragmatism. John understands his life as it is and accepts it. The wings are an unnecessary unknown – the ultimate inability to accept his life as he has made it. To take them would be a failure in some way; the need to embrace a new beginning.

 

There is always a pang of regret, though, when he wakes. He sits up in the darkness, chugs a glass of water down his parched throat, and reaches over his shoulder to rub his empty shoulder blades. John wonders what his wings might look like.

 

Most of the time, John doesn't think about the annual dreams. They are simply a fact of life, the same way that Christmas and getting the flu are just things that happen. Like his dubious psychic abilities, they are in a practical sense useless, and John is a practical man. Unexplained knowledge and dreams do not mean that he believes in aliens, or Wicca circles, or mind reading. He goes to uni to become a doctor, ships out to Afghanistan, gets shot, and comes back home in a mess of bloody bandages, all the while drinking tea and trying to maintain failing friendships that were never very strong to begin with.

 

A little while after his 34th birthday, he meets a strange, charming man who effortlessly cures his limp and expects John to follow where he leads. John does.

 

The day before his 35th birthday, John rents a hotel room. He tells his hopelessly nosy flatmate that he's going round to Sarah's. Sherlock grunts and likely doesn't hear him. John smiles and leaves milk in the fridge.

 

"Hello again," the woman says in his dream.

 

"Hello," John replies. He surveys his surroundings with more interest than he ever has before, but the space yields little information to his investigative gaze. Silky endless blackness that hovers without consuming. Nothing more.

 

"You've met someone," she says.

 

"Oh, not you too," John replies with a small grin. He is still himself, after all, and if he wants to have a sense of humor the woman will just have to deal with it.

 

She gives him a small smile back, more acknowledgement than amusement.

 

"This is important."

 

"I... yeah, I know." John isn't sure exactly whether she means to him, to Sherlock, or to the world. But he wouldn't argue with any of those interpretations.

 

Her smile is real now, showing a hint of perfect white teeth. "I had hopes for this."

 

"Did you? Why?"

 

"Because it's beautiful," she says, utterly honest and too matter of fact to make John embarrassed. "We all hope for beauty."

 

"Don't know how much beauty there is in either of us," John says, honest as well. "He doesn't care about people and keeps eyeballs in the fridge. I... well, you know. Short temper, adrenaline junkie, no ambition to speak of."

 

"Of course neither of you is beautiful," the woman scolds him, but the words aren't meant to sting. "But together you are significant."

 

That year, she asks John if he is content. John says yes.

 

He leaves the hotel room feeling stiff, and Sherlock eyes him curiously when he gets back to the flat. "Ended up spending it alone," John says by way of explanation, and Sherlock nods.

 

There is a year full of crime and bickering and violin at 2 in the morning, and it passes so quickly that John is amazed when he realizes it's almost his birthday again. It's like existing entirely in the present; so much happens and he is so consumed by it all that he never gets a moment to notice the passage of time.

 

"Most people celebrate their birthdays in some fashion," Sherlock says from the sofa, blue eyes staring at the ceiling.

 

John blinks at his morning cup of tea. "I do celebrate it. I go out."

 

"You don't invite me." Not an accusation, simply a statement. John is suddenly struck by Sherlock's similarity to the woman he will soon see in his dream.

 

"Not exactly your scene, is it? I don't even know your birthday."

 

"You've never told me yours either."

 

"Yeah, but you deduced it."

 

"Obviously."

 

The conversation ends there. John's hand is admirably steady on his teacup, and his pulse thumps only slightly faster. The one thing he cannot do is incite Sherlock's curiosity, because this is the one thing he cannot explain.

 

"You shine even brighter this year," the woman says by way of greeting. John wonders if he should feel like blushing, but he doesn't.

 

“Right, well. Good to hear I’m… shiny.”

 

The woman gives him a look. John swallows and tries to appear meek.

 

“You have to stay with him, John.” The words sound so familiar.

 

“I know. Of course, I know. Why are you telling me this?”

 

“Because you might not always be sure. Sure of yourself; sure of him. Try not to doubt him. And don’t doubt yourself, John. When it comes down to it, you’ll do what has to be done.”

 

But in the end, he doesn’t.

 

For three straight days all John can feel is the constant rush of useless foreknowing. He knows that Sherlock will be arrested. He knows that the paper will publish lies. He knows that Moriarty will get Sherlock alone. He knows everything, far too late to do anything.

 

For the first time, John truly hates himself for it. It wears him down until he finds himself in a lab at Bart's, yelling at Sherlock for being inhuman even as John knows that _he_ is the one who isn't wholly human. He is the one who has all this knowledge, all this useless knowledge crowding his brain and dulling his senses until he completely misses ploys that should have been transparently obvious.

 

But John misses them, and Sherlock falls.

 

On his birthday, the woman asks John if he is surviving. He says yes. She asks him if he wants his wings. He says no. What's the point?

 

For his next birthday, the woman asks him if he has adjusted. He says yes. She tells John that she's bored just looking at him, and asks him if he wants his wings. He still says no.

 

The birthday after, the woman asks him if he's happy. John says no without even thinking. She gives him a sad smile and asks if he wants his wings, but John can tell that she wants him to say no. He says no.

 

And then, between that birthday and the next, Sherlock comes back. He tears into London just the way he left it, in a storm of fire and glory. John is angry and relieved and hurt and bitter and he both punches and hugs Sherlock. Sherlock accepts the gestures, but does not return them. Does not return to John's flat. Does not return to John's life.

 

They don't ignore each other, of course. They are still friends, and Sherlock will still occasionally ask him for his dubious advice on cases. But it is not the same. There is nothing tangible to suggest it, and yet - It. Is. Not. The. Same. John isn't sure if other people know it, or it's only him who’s aware, but it is an indisputable fact. When Sherlock's eyes meet his, there is no more inexplicable understanding, only blank coolness. His interest in the cases, or John, or in fact anything, is shallow and easily distracted.

 

Other people say his time away has calmed him. John knows that isn't true - it has _tamed_ him, broken him the way you break a horse, with whips and spurs.

 

John no longer has the keys to the kingdom and the fact aches miserably in his throat. He got his miracle, but it wasn’t enough.

 

"Yes," John says to the woman, before she is able to speak a word.

 

"Yes?" She raises a perfect eyebrow.

 

"I think - I think that both of us need to be woken up, if you know what I mean." John nods, certain.

 

"You don't know what it will do."

 

"I don't care. It will do something. I need something. He needs something. Something has to change."

 

Her deep brown eyes grow suddenly warm. "Every other time you finally asked me, it’s been far too late. Even if it’s still too late, I’m glad you asked me now."

 

Both fear and curiosity prickle in his gut. "Every... other?"

 

She smiles. "Oh, John. You didn't think this was the first time, did you?"

 

When John wakes up, he looks at the clock. 12:01 AM. He drinks a glass of water and slips a hand over his shoulder to feel his shoulder blades.

 

Nothing. And yet... a faint brush. Something?

 

He gets out of bed, flips on the light, and looks in the mirror.

 

Spread out behind him are a pair of tan wings. Sandy brown, the color of the desert in Afghanistan under a cloudless sky. They aren’t as big as he expected; maybe half the size of the woman’s. When he holds them relaxed, the crest of his wings reach just above his head, and the tips of his wings lay against his thighs. When he spreads them out, he estimates they stretch maybe five and a half feet wide.

 

John looks at them and tries to decide how to feel – awestruck? underwhelmed? crazy? He shrugs, and the wings shrug with him.

 

When he touches a row of uniformly small, neat feathers (made of fine, tight threads, unlike the soft down of the woman's) he feels a slight brushing sensation. It's interesting. He can't feel them when they hit the walls or the bed, but there's an awareness of human touch.

 

London is madness.

 

Wings are everywhere. He sees hawk wings, bat wings, sparrow wings, ostrich wings, and less easily defined ones like his own that don't belong to any one animal. They come in every shape and color; John watches a punk kid with bright blue wings and eye piercings cross the street in front of him.

 

He's halfway home when he runs into a short, smooth faced man with no wings at his back. John stops and stares, shocked out of politeness.

 

"Can I help you?" The man asks, his voice silky-smooth. John shudders, shakes his head, and walks hastily away. Then the thought occurs to him.

 

What if Sherlock has no wings?

 

As soon as John has the thought, he feels terrible for it. Of course Sherlock will have wings. Because John knows, the same way he knows that Moriarty is evil and that Lestrade is good, only the most twisted kinds of people - the kind that aren't really people at all - don't have wings. John is fundamentally sure that Moriarty has no wings.

 

 _I'm a high-functioning sociopath_ , John's mind whispers at him. He bites his lip and furiously tells his mind to shove it. That's ridiculous. Sherlock is not a sociopath, even if he doesn't care about people much. Even if he doesn't seem to care about anything much, these days. He absolutely will have wings.

 

And if Sherlock does not have wings, well, John will just have to make him some. He will stretch gauze over splints in looping imitations of feathers and bandage it all together. He will sew it to Sherlock's back with surgeon's thread and when Sherlock looks questions at him, John will simply shake his head. When the wings are attached, Sherlock will understand what was missing and be complete again. Because John will not allow Sherlock to be incomplete.

 

By luck and an excess of sentiment, John still has the spare key to 221B Baker Street. He fishes them out of his pocket, unlocks the front door, and walks up the seventeen stairs to their flat. Sherlock's flat.

 

It smells like ammonia and home.

 

John walks into the doorway and Sherlock, bent over an experiment, turns to look at him. And there – yes, there – are Sherlock's dark wings, stretching out behind him.

 

The first thing that strikes John is that Sherlock's wings are beautiful and utterly _other_. They are like the woman's - huge and strong, with impossibly soft-looking black feathers. They are too beautiful and too fey to seem entirely human.

 

The second is that Sherlock's wings are on fire. Red-orange flames, small but urgent, lick burns into the downy feathers. Streaks of fire creep outward from the center of his back, reaching out toward the tips of his wings.

 

The third is a rush of foreknowing that something bad is about to happen.

 

Without thinking, though he knows it is already too late, John throws himself forward. His new wings beat frantically behind him, small feathers pulling at the air. John never knows if it is luck, or if having the wings gives him an edge in his knowing, or it's the wings themselves, but his arms close around Sherlock before the explosion hits, and they tumble to the ground.

 

A huge bang goes off and pain flares over his back; the freezing-hot sensation of a chemical burn. John clutches Sherlock tight and shields him with his body until the floor stops trembling underneath them both.

 

“What the hell did you think you were doing, precisely?” John asks, and he thinks he sounds quite calm under the circumstances.

 

“An experiment. It went wrong.” Sherlock turns his head away and stares at the bottom of the sofa. His wings are still flaming. John looks for signs of pain, but sees nothing urgent in his pale face.

 

“No kidding. Why weren’t you being more careful?”

 

Sherlock flinches, and John watches with alarm as the flames on his wings rise.

 

“Get off of me.” He doesn’t ask John why he’s here; doesn’t seem to want to know.

 

“No.” Very, very gently, but without even thinking of a need for permission, John reaches out and brushes the feathers of Sherlock's left wing. He feels slight tingles, pins and needles, when he touches the flames. It almost hurts, but the fire eating at the feathers dims.

 

Sherlock’s eyes widen and he goes still. “What are you doing?”

 

“I… don’t know.” It’s true. But John keeps touching. There’s so much wing and he can only reach some of it from this position, but he doesn’t want to move. If he gets up, Sherlock will probably try to make him leave, because having people pet something invisible next to your head is likely very unnerving.

 

“I don’t understand.” John glances down in surprise; the words are tantamount to an invitation to continue, coming from Sherlock. Some of that blank coldness has gone out of Sherlock’s face, and now he does look pained.

 

“What’s wrong?” John asks. His hands don’t stop, though the tingling is getting to be more than just uncomfortable.

 

“Nothing I can tell you about,” Sherlock says flatly.

 

“Is that why you’ve been avoiding me? You feel… ashamed? Ashamed of what?” John immediately bites his lip. Stupid, stupid. He sees, he just doesn’t observe. Sherlock’s been gone for three years, taking down a web of spies and killers. Of course he’s… done things.

 

"You don't want to know," Sherlock growls, like a challenge.

 

"You're probably right," John agrees. He keeps brushing. "But that doesn't mean I wouldn't forgive you."

 

There is a long pause and then Sherlock quietly says, "Maybe," and John feels his throat tighten at the raw hope in it.

 

"You say maybe because you know the answer is yes." John hunches his shoulders. Wing meets wing; feather slides against feather. The fire is smoldering now, no longer flames, just smoke.

 

"I... God, I hope so." Sherlock turns his face away, but this time it’s to rest his head against the floor and close his eyes, like he’s allowing himself to be tired.

 

“It isn’t just you, Sherlock. We all have things we’re afraid to tell. We try to forget about them, most of the time. You just have a better memory than the rest of us.” John berates himself as he continues stroking out the flames – how had he missed this? Why didn’t he push harder?

 

No matter. He’ll do it now.

 

And he does. They stay on the floor until John has touched all of Sherlock’s singed feathers, Sherlock quiet and compliant despite the fact that John is determinedly stroking the air around his head and shoulders for no apparent reason.

 

“Done.” John sits back on his haunches. Sherlock turns his head to blink at him, and his wings stretch. They’re still beautiful, even with all the charred and ashy feathers. It makes the wings look softer, somehow.

 

“Am I ever going to know what just happened there?” Sherlock already knows the answer, of course. Because he has deduced this strange morning – some of it, the parts that can be deduced. Because he is truly watching John, eyes bright and curious, for the first time in years.

 

John feels his own wings spread behind him in a silent smile and just shakes his head.

 

“Well,” Sherlock says, with a last piercing stare, “I hope whatever you did was worth it.”

 

On his next birthday, John wakes up to see the woman smiling at him. He smiles back and examines her white wings more closely, looking for similarities to Sherlock’s. They are almost identical except for the color.

 

“It’s our last time together,” the woman says.

 

“I know.” John nods.

 

She asks him about the year and words spill out of his mouth, faster than they ever have before. Maybe because right now, before he wakes up, is the last time. John tells her about close calls and kidnappings, books and blog entries, old eccentricities that Sherlock has reintroduced and new ones he’s invented.

 

In a more somber tone, he tells her about the wings. About how strange it is to see them, and yet how familiar. About the responsibility he feels for having this ability; the way he wants to be able to use it somehow, and its stubborn impracticality. About the painful flames John can see on only Sherlock’s wings, that he is always trying to put out.

 

“A burden with little reward and much confusion.” She studies him for a long while before posing the last question.

 

This time, the woman asks him, “Was it worth it?”

 

“Obviously,” John says.

 

 On his next birthday, he buys a cake and eats it with Sherlock, both of them winged and very much awake.


End file.
